


The Unknown

by Selkit



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Female Relationships, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4893412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkit/pseuds/Selkit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cheedo can’t even count the number of things she doesn’t know, but she knows she fears them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unknown

_“It’s natural to fear the unknown.”_

Cheedo still hears Angharad’s voice saying the words, still sees her reassuring smile and feels the comforting press of her arms. Gentle, tenacious Angharad, so wise about the nature of fear, though she herself is fearless. Was fearless.

_“Fearing the unknown is how we stay alive. It’s human. Just don’t let it paralyze you, Cheedo.”_

Cheedo staggers on her spindle legs, leans over and retches into the sand. She gasps and gags, and nothing comes out but wind-whipped strings of bile. She hasn’t eaten since she ran from everything familiar and threw herself into endless unknown wasteland.

Her tears add insult to injury as she heaves, salty and sour, and she wonders if Angharad was afraid when she went under the wheels.

* * *

Cheedo can’t even count the number of things she doesn’t know, but she knows she fears them all.

She doesn’t know where the Green Place is. She doesn’t know if it’s even _real_. She doesn’t know if she’ll live long enough to get there. She doesn’t know if the next stray bullet or out-of-control vehicle might be the one to do her in. 

She huddles in the backseat of the Rig, threadbare blanket pulled up to her chin, and stares at the back of Furiosa’s head.

 _Don’t you worry,_ she remembers Angharad saying. Her voice is fainter, now. _Furiosa will get us there._

In the passenger seat, Furiosa takes apart her gun with grim, practiced movements, mechanical as her prosthetic arm. Her head tilts down, and Cheedo can just see the side of her face. Her eye is narrowed and her mouth set in a stony line. 

Angharad trusted Furiosa, and now Angharad is dead and Furiosa is wordless and emotionless and cleaning her rifle like nothing’s happened, like this happens every _day_ , and the injustice of it turns Cheedo’s blood to fire. In the back of her mind she knows it wasn’t Furiosa’s fault, but a great swell of fear and fury engulfs her all the same. She wants to beat her fists on the seat like a child in a tantrum, but she settles for pulling the blanket up over her head and curling beneath it, limbs quaking.

_Fearing the unknown is how we stay alive._

Suddenly it feels like Furiosa is the most unknown of all.

* * *

When the bullets start flying out of the twilight gloom, Cheedo is so indignant that for the first time in her life, she forgets to be afraid.

“Don’t they know they’re _shooting_ at us?”

The spark of outrage flares out bright and quick as she realizes– _yes, they know, and no, they don’t care_ –and the fear is just about to take hold again when she registers the cold press of metal fingers on her back. 

She feels herself spin around and drop to the ground, and then the metal is replaced by something solid and _warm_ , and she realizes Furiosa’s body is stretched over hers, pressing her into the ground. Shielding her. 

Bullets patter the ground all around them like raindrops. Furiosa’s flesh and blood arm is a heavy weight on the back of Cheedo’s neck, and her breath comes fast and harsh in Cheedo’s ear, hot and urgent as a summer squall. 

_Breathing. Breathing is good. Breathing means we’re still alive._

“I’m going to grab that door,” Furiosa hisses. Her voice, so close, rattles around in Cheedo’s skull. Cheedo’s never been this close to anyone so unfamiliar before, skin to skin, never anyone except Dag, and Angharad– 

“You stay behind me,” Furiosa says. “I’ll cover you.”

She doesn’t wait for a response–which is good, because Cheedo doubts she could have squeaked one out anyway–leaps up and hoists the discarded slab of metal, waves wildly with her prosthetic. Cheedo needs no second invitation. She ducks behind the door, behind Furiosa, squatting and skittering like a scorpion rustled from its hole. 

Bullets ricochet off the metal with loud, angry clangs, and suddenly Cheedo knows one thing: if Furiosa wasn’t here, next to her, she would be sprawled and sightless, her blood leaking into the sand. 

They make it back to the Rig, and there isn’t any time to say _thank you._

* * *

Once, when she was still back at the Citadel, Cheedo had heard one of the milk mothers giving birth. It was impossible _not_ to hear. The shrieks of agony had penetrated all the way through the Vault’s thick sealed door, and Cheedo had spent the long hours rocking back and forth with her shaking palms pressed to her ears.

Furiosa’s scream is far worse. 

They all watch her as she staggers into the desert, metal arm discarded in her wake, and drops to her knees. She yells long and loud, and the hopelessness of it drives into Cheedo, hitting her hard like the bullets didn’t.

She glances back and forth among the other Wives–ex-Wives–but their faces are drawn, haggard with disquiet. And it suddenly hits her–none of them know what to do. With Angharad gone, Furiosa is the glue holding them together, and Furiosa is on her knees screaming rage and loss into the sky. 

Cheedo ducks down, puts her head between her knees, and tries not to throw up.

* * *

Night falls, and the little group splinters. Capable pairs up with her War Boy, both bathed in meager lantern light. The Dag, so often willing to attach to Cheedo’s hip, wanders off to talk with the wizened old Vuvalini. And Furiosa wraps herself up in a blanket and stands apart, suspended somewhere between the War Rig and the stars. 

Cheedo shivers and pools her chin on her knees, watching Furiosa and waiting for a sign of hope, even the briefest flicker. The long, heartrending scream still echoes in her mind, a haunting that needs a balm to make it go away. 

_If Angharad were here, she would know just what to say,_ she thinks, but stops it cold before it can go any further. 

Angharad isn’t here, but Cheedo still is. That’s one thing she knows. 

_Fear is human. Just don’t let it paralyze you, Cheedo._

She snatches up a small container, goes to the hose, and fills it with water. 

She’s halfway over to Furiosa, carefully balancing the brimming cup in her hand, when her body starts to quail, mind wondering if she’s making a huge mistake. _Maybe she just wants to be alone, maybe she’ll turn around and snap at me and scare me–_

But then Furiosa’s head is turning toward her, and it’s too late to run back now.

“Hello,” Cheedo says, suddenly as awkward as the youngest greenest War Pup. The weight of Furiosa’s gaze settles on her, vast and unknowable, not warm and protective like the press of her body as the bullets sang overhead. 

Cheedo holds out the water. She can’t remember the last time she saw Furiosa drink, and _everyone_ needs water, even an Imperator who takes life without blinking, who keeps driving when Angharad goes under the Immortan’s wheels.

“Are you okay?” she tries. It comes out timid, but at least it comes out.

Furiosa says nothing, but her face shifts. Her mouth softens, and her gaze seems a little less heavy. It’s not a _yes_ , but it’s not a _no_ , either.

She reaches out to take the water, and watches Cheedo over the rim as she takes a long drink. 

“Thank you,” she says, quiet but firm. 

“No.” A sudden rush of boldness seizes Cheedo, like Angharad is there, squeezing her hand. “Thank _you_.”

Furiosa doesn’t quite smile, but she hands the cup back to Cheedo. Cheedo takes a tentative sip, breathes in and out, and drinks again.

They stand in silence, passing the cup back and forth, until the water is gone.


End file.
